The bolt slides silkily forward and locks with a muffled rasp. Pull it back and the spent cartridge joyfully springs out. Clack-click. Click-clack. Tingles or shudders.
Its heart is a bewildering 3-dimensional puzzle metal parts, each groove and ridge machined to deliver a perfect motion each time.
Mechanical excellence, with…
Once, the path to the office had been nothing more than a trail in the grass, a vague outline snaking towards the woods, the hills and the streams to explore. Now, weeks later, it was a grove dug by shuffling feet, brushing shoulders, careless spades and freshly sharpened machetes, sanded…
80 kms South of Fizi, on the border Kivu/Katanga, Camp Katenga, 19 February to 22 May 1930. Life is Fun. You live it, you do not make it or have it. The way she sees it, the way she was taught, entertainment was a duty, a tool. It was only…
Moving to a new country has little to do with changing location. Or even adjusting to a new temperature, or a new culture. There is all of that, sure, but it is primarily stepping into a completely new sphere of existence, absolutely cut from the one you are leaving. You…
Just, turning the bend, the successful hunting party makes its triumphant way through the village, a nonchalant peloton strolling in. The trackers lead, spotters and beaters follow, as always. By chance, François finds himself at the head of the little troop, Mauser slinged. Total coincidence, naturally, he is not one…
And so they walk for a month, setting up the tent and folding it every other night. Further and further in. Every day, new trails, new marks and samples. Always on, further on! Guide in front, machete in hand, a flintlock on a strap. Beaters upfront each side of the…
On the main square, François sits in the shade with the Chief under the squat hut awning. He is on a smaller seat, as protocol and manners dictate, leaning forward intently, scrutinising a line of local candidates standing at rest in the sun. The griot/féticheur/ healer stands behind the Chief…
Now – Eternity. Oak trees tower over long forgotten trails. Olive trees twist and turn in frozen dances. Palm trees hang out over weary pools.
Rocks and stones, hieratic and solemn; witnessing, recording, remembering. Fleeting millennia pass by, shadows forever rushing to the next horizon. And youth, always trying to grow…
The Sun is up, searing. Suzanne strolls on her way back to the school, with a few vegetables for tonight. She woke up a few hours ago; François is already up in the hills with his team. He always leaves early, when the Sun is not yet a murderous welding…
All of it hers. Well, theirs. But mostly hers though. The kitchen towels, the mugs, the plates, the cutlery, the pans, the pots, the taller pots, the coffee pots, the teapots, the porcelain cups, the sauce jug, …. Wait, the sauce jug?? Oh well, appearances are everything, is it not? You…
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